Contemplations from an Angry Stomach
by joiede
Summary: A domestically challenged Orihime attempts to cook. Uryu suffers the consequences. Oneshot.


Contemplations from an Angry Stomach

"You must be hungry. Let me make you dinner."

Uryu should have known better. Should have, but didn't. Just like how he should have noticed the foreboding message Orihime's bloated goldfish tried to communicate to him as it floated ominously about its little tank. Or the way the sky seemed to darken when she clapped her hands together and told him dinner would be ready in half an hour. It should've been plenty of time for him to dive out the window and make a break for freedom.

Instead, like an idiot, he'd smiled pleasantly and said, "Oh. That's really nice of you to want to cook for me, Orihime." As a matter of fact, he was even pleased with her domestic affinity.

He _should_ have called the poison control company, or at least questioned her decision to mash deep-fried squid balls into the condensed durian juice. And he really should have said something about that Tabasco sauce in the lemonade.

Then perhaps his face would not be shoved down the toilet like a bum.

The seat, decorated by a girlishly fluffy covering, clattered noisily as he smacked his head against the rim.

_Ow._

Uryu groaned as another tidal wave of sickness engulfed his piteous stomach. He made a futile attempt to channel all his energy into exterminating the sinister whirlpool spinning around his abdomen, hopelessly trying to pry its biding claws away from his gut.

The sickness persisted, and defiantly clenched his stomach like an overblown squeeze-toy. Uryu felt dangerously close to popping.

"I should have jumped out the window while I had the chance," he grumbled. Granted, it was a rather long jump—and it was possible he could end up accidentally wedged into a tree. But at least he would be free from Orihime's cooking.

_Cooking. Ha_.

If his stomach did not feel so much like a dying sponge, Uryu would've chuckled. To be honest, he doubted her feast could even qualify for the same category as cooking.

Cooking was supposed to be an art—a magically mundane task of necessity and creative outlet. Everyone could do it, it's impossible to screw up! After all, one man's junk was another man's Picasso.

Except in Orihime's case. Then it was pretty much junk all the way around, every way you turned it. Green, mucus looking junk dipped in exotic juices and rolled in homemade horseradish mush…

The angry fist tightened in his abdomen. _Son of a—_

"Uryu?"

Oh shoot.

The vibrations of her footsteps were ever-so-slightly shaking the fuzzy pink toilet seat, making his hypersensitive head pulse violently within the confines of his skull. _What's wrong?_ He could already hear her ask, _Are you going to throw up all over my sweet furry toilet seat covering?_

His bustling imagination pictured her face falling in shame as her voice dropped a few levels to accommodate her guilt. _Did my cooking do this to you?_ He visualized her head snapping up to reveal tears, just tickling the edge of her eyes. Horrified, he watched the fabricated Orihime in his mind sob out her apologies as she jumped from the window in an impulsive attempt to commit seppuku.

Again, he smacked his throbbing forehead against the toilet seat. Stupid, efficacious brain was playing mind tricks on him. Well too bad, he wasn't about to outsmart himself.

"Uryu?"

What was he saying? Now was not the time to be thought-speaking to himself. What was he, a psych ward escapee? Better to say these things out loud, like a normal person.

"You dumbass," he told himself.

"What?"

"No! Not you, Orihime! I'll be out in a second."

Her footsteps were getting closer. He could tell by the way the spastic thwacking noise in his brain was intensifying. "Uryu?" she called, sounding strangely hesitant, "What's wrong?"

From the corner of his eye, he was aware of the door being pushed open. The girl stopped to stare, wide-eyed, as she caught sight of his stooped form, a faint reminiscence of the loveless hunchback she had seen before in one of her cartoons.

Uryu remained crouching, refusing remove his face from the toilet bowl. _I must look like a freak. But at least I look like a cool freak, because my shirt is ironed. _He frowned as he looked down at his previously wrinkle-free sweater, suffering greatly from the abuse of being pressed against a lavatory instrument. _Bah. Doesn't matter. Just explain your situation in a calm, dignified manner…_

He opened his mouth, "I suggest you get back. My stomach is ticking like a plutonium bomb."

Was that a dignified response? He couldn't tell, with all the goblins rattling away at his skull. But judging by the way Orihime was opening and closing and opening and closing her mouth like a drowning fish, it was not the statement he should've hoped for.

He watched helplessly as her face contorted into a crestfallen expression. Any second now, his heinously elaborate imagination expected her to throw herself out the window in despair.

Uryu knew what had to be done.

_You dope._

Such a softie. "Did I say ticking? I meant 'ricketing.' Because I ate so much delicious horseradish stew, my stomach has become bloated with glee," His stomach let out an enraged growl in protest, but was silenced when Uryu deliberately punched himself in the gut. He cleaned his throat, "I was just inspecting your toilet bowl for harmful bacteria, which can cause horrible rashes to the skin… Ichigo has them, you know." Uryu added, just for good measure. Ah, what the hell—Ichigo wouldn't mind if he borrowed his name for a little white lie, would he?

He straightened, all the while cursing his self-destructive good will. Ignoring the little eels writhing away in his gut, Uryu decided that he should've remained a cold, calamitous bastard. Calamitous bastards did not have to worry about hurting a sweet, domestically-challenged girl's feelings. They probably didn't stick their face down toilets with fuzzy pink lids either.

_I'm such a nice guy._

Bracing himself for a grievous morning-after, he had to force the next words from his mouth, "Anyhow… what's for dessert?"

(AN: This fic was inspired by my sister's sudden desire to channel Iron Chef. Almost burned the house down, and broke the stove. We had to eat ramen and hello kitty waffles for a week.)


End file.
